


A Gallery of Fathomless Terror

by KnightOfSixthMagnitudeStars, Shoin_Writes



Category: Ib (Video Game), No. 6 (Anime & Manga), No. 6 - All Media Types, No. 6 - Asano Atsuko
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-04 03:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12762408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KnightOfSixthMagnitudeStars/pseuds/KnightOfSixthMagnitudeStars, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoin_Writes/pseuds/Shoin_Writes
Summary: Alternatively titled "Shion", as a direct parallel of kouri's Ib. (This is a crossover fic in which No.6 characters are dropped into the art gallery.)Two teenagers, both unlike in dignity // a cursed gallery, where we set our scene...





	1. Shion: Into the Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily based off a RP with shoin_writes from the No.6 Discord server. Thanks for letting me bounce ideas off you like heck!  
> This fic will swap between Nezumi and Shion's POV throughout, and should be updated...fairly regularly.

The spacious No.6 Art Gallery was a welcome change from the stuffy car that Shion had been in for the past hour. It felt like he’d stepped out of the real world and into some sort of liminal space, defined by tall ceilings, vast halls, and the tranquil quiet, broken only by the occasional murmurs and staccato footsteps. In wonder, Shion stood in the foyer for a moment, breathing deeply, eyes wide.

It had been a long time since he'd been here. He was sixteen now, and the exhibits had all changed. Last time, when he’d been twelve, the gallery halls had been populated with intricate sculptures that spoke of feats of engineering, but this time, the walls were filled with surreal paintings and uncanny structures. He felt like if he stared too long, he’d become so utterly immersed in the artistry that he’d float straight into it.

He felt afloat already, but for the weight of his backpack weighing him down, keeping him corporeal. Shion shifted it on his shoulders, shrugging to resettle the contents in it so that what was in there wouldn’t dig so sharply into his back. He had a peculiar collection of items in his backpack: a thin spiral notebook, a small first aid kit, and various travel essentials.

Someone behind him cleared their throat, and Shion jumped, quickly apologizing before hurrying up toward the reception desk to rejoin his mother, who was now the second person in the line to be checked in to the gallery. He’d been spurred into action, and now all he wanted to do was _explore._

“Earth to Shion?” Karan asked, a twinkle in her eye. She was more than familiar with her son’s tendency to lose himself not in thought, but in his surroundings.

“Mmhm! Hey, mom? I’m going to go look around the gallery for a bit, is that okay?”

"Okay, dear! Try not to get lost, this gallery is pretty big, and I wouldn’t want you to get so fascinated by something that you forget this place closes!” she teased. She didn’t really mind him wandering off, and she knew he was old enough to take care of himself -- he was smart, albeit easily distracted.

"I won't, don’t worry!" Shion said, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring grin before heading off. With how excited he was, he could barely restrain his steps to a museum-appropriate speed pace -- he wanted to _run._

The gallery was filled with heaps of different works of art: paintings, sculptures, and some mannequins that seemed to belong more in a department store than in a museum. Everything passed in a blur; an indescribable drive had welled up inside of him, making Shion want to loop through the museum to see _everything_ before settling down and properly examining anything.

He skidded to a stop in front of a painting of an expressionless woman in a red dress. It was...familiar? No, that wasn’t the word. Shion felt like it should mean something to him, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Perhaps that was part of the charm of art galleries -- they seemed to have the ability to evoke nebulous emotions in their visitors.

The painting calmed the frenzy in his mind, and he continued through the gallery more slowly. Eyes still alight with wonder, he wandered into a long hallway that was sparsely decorated. It was a pristine white, but on one side hung a massive painting that spanned the entire hallway like a psychedelic tapestry.

“Fabricated World…” Shion whispered. He barely glanced at the informational plaque with how magnetised his eyes were to the painting itself.

In the painting, colours swirled and shadows blended to create an incomprehensible, yet captivating work of art. Entranced, Shion drew closer. As if of its own volition, his hand rose, fingers stretched toward the canvas, which seemed to ripple like liquid.

But his finger touched solid, rough canvas. With a gasp, Shion yanked his hand back and clasped it to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding and he glanced around furtively, hoping that no one had saw his blunder. Shion didn’t know what had come over him and possessed him to touch a priceless work of art in the city’s largest art gallery.

The lights flickered, and in that moment of darkness, Shion could swear he saw the painting _glow._

Then the reality of the situation his him. If the lights were unstable in a national gallery, he should probably do his duty as a dedicated citizen and report it, right? He walked quickly, wanting to get back to examining the Fabricated World again as soon as possible. Perhaps the gallery staff had just missed a damaged light bulb in this area, he thought as he made his way through the gallery and down the stairs to the front desk.

It was empty. There was no one else in the lobby either, and, come to think of it, Shion hadn’t encountered on the way either. The lights flickered again, and this time, they stayed dark. It felt cold, all of a sudden, and Shion drew his tan coat more tightly around himself with a shiver.

Something was wrong; if the gallery was closing, why hadn’t there been an announcement, and why hadn’t his mother texted him or anything? A quick check of his phone showed that it was just before two in the afternoon..and that he had no service.

He ran to the door and yanked on it, but it didn’t open. He yanked on it again, throwing his weight backwards, but still, nothing. He was locked in, alone.

"Mom?" Shion shouted. No response.

“Anyone?!” He shouted again, but still received no response, not even a harried shush at his blatant misconduct in a museum.

He ran out into the gallery, passing by a floor painting with what appeared to have a fish on it, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the fish twitch.

He ignored it -- not like he could escape through a painting -- and continued on his way. The aster sculpture, which had been flourishing when he’d passed it earlier, was now partially wilted. Shion wondered if he’d just somehow missed a detail on his first pass through the museum, but he doubted it. Something else was afoot, and he was sure it was connected in some way to the Fabricated World.

He wandered around some more in circles, trying to figure out what had happened, calling out every so often in hopes of receiving any sort of response. Another flicker of movement shot across the edge of his peripheral vision, and this time, Shion knew he wasn’t imagining it.

A fruit shot out of the painting next to him and splattered on the ground, and, suppressing a shout, he dashed in the other direction. And then without quite meaning to, he was back in front of the Fabricated World again.

But this time, the painting had changed. Now, in the dim light of the gallery, the swirls of colour seemed sinister, and the shadows, menacing. Rather than the painting seeming like it was trying to draw Shion into it, it now appeared to be expanding past its frame.

With a sound that reminded him of soup boiling over, something blue dripped from the bottom of the painting and trailed down the wall, leaving behind a series of clumpy streaks.

He heard several wet splatters behind him, and he froze. Holding his phone in front of him like a shield, he whirled around.

His vision locked onto the letters stamped across the floor,

_‘C O M E S H I O N'_

He gasped, taking an involuntary step back. How did…whatever this was know his name? Terror was starting to freeze him in place, but then his curiosity overtook him and he leaned down to inspect it.

In the dim lighting, Shion couldn’t see much of anything. He pulled out his phone – still no service – and shined the screen toward the fluid. It wasn’t as shiny as blood, nor it didn’t _smell_ metallic, so…acrylic? Oil paint?

Something splattered behind him, and Shion jerked upright, spinning around again to see words painted on the wall, still wet, just inches away from his back. Did things start to…move whenever he didn’t look directly at them?

'come down below shion i want to show you someplace secret'

He knew it wasn’t a sane idea to follow the instructions, but…with the way he was going, he was getting nowhere. Shion decided that he’d go down to the first floor and check the exit one more time before complying, and with that decision, Shion bolted out of the hall.

Down the stairs, around the corner, and then his foot slipped on something and he fell and skidded toward the floor painting. He tried to catch himself on the rope enclosure, but it seemed to actively sway away from his grip. The ground gave way beneath him, and he saw a flash of blue (footprints?) before he was completely engulfed by gel.


	2. Nezumi: Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, took a few _~creative liberties~_ with how Nezumi/Garry got into the gallery, as it was never really explained in the game. Heck, why not? ¯_(ツ)_/¯

Art was not usually Nezumi’s thing. He didn’t have anything against it, but he didn’t really get it either; his interest lay in literature and the art of theatre -- props, costuming, lighting, blocking, he could go on for _days_ \-- but the local library had been advertising free admission to Elyurias’ exhibit at the No.6 Art Gallery, and he didn’t have anything better to do anyways.

Whatever. It was a chance to spend a few hours somewhere air-conditioned, and, better yet, away from his tiny apartment and crazy roommates -- the drunkard who only stayed around because he was the only one old enough to legally sign for an apartment and the freak who perpetually smelled like wet dog and looked like they were one step away from becoming a sheepdog.

As he’d expected, he didn’t understand the appeal of the gallery. What was so fascinating about painting random figures then adding incomprehensible scribbles or an extra eye here or there? Why the mannequins and paintings of classically-clad women? Nezumi could swear he’d already seem most of this in art history textbooks already; he didn’t see a point in remixing the same things over and over again.

But there was one painting that caught his attention as he slouched through the halls: _The Hanged Man_. Nezumi knew it was a tarot card, yes, so it was basically yet another remixed work, but...something. There was something about it that completely hypnotised him, to the point that he felt like he couldn’t stop staring at it.

The lights flickered, and so did Nezumi’s rapt attention. He groaned and took a few steps back as the lights flickered again then went out. Had he seriously lost track of so much time that the gallery was already closing? Nezumi dashed down the stairs, past the oceanic floor painting, through the lobby, and tried to let himself out. It was too late, though. The doors had already locked. 

He’d thought these places were supposed to give a fucking announcement when they were about to close, but apparently not. Angrily, Nezumi kicked at the wood doors, leaving a black scuff mark on it from his boot, then pulled out his phone.

It was just past two in the afternoon, according to his display. He had no service. That was his first clue that whatever was wrong with this damn place wasn’t fully the fault of whoever ran this gallery. In vain, he tried the number at the receptionist’s desk, but after two rings, a wave of staticky sound emanated from his phone. 

If he listened closely enough, he thought he could hear whispers blended amidst the static, like in some bulllshit conspiracy theory. He turned the phone off. No help would come from there; he’d have to count on himself, as usual.

There were no windows on the first floor, but he remembered seeing two on the second, so he headed up the stairs again. Near the top of the stairs, he heard several loud thumps, and he crested the stairs just in time to see someone’s shadow pass by the window.

The window. On the second floor. _What the hell?_ Against his better judgement, he pounded his fist on the window as well as he examined the edges of it. 

Black fluid splattered across the window, making Nezumi back up a few steps. He was surprised, but then rage filled him. This was some sort of demented prank, and when he got out, he was going to find and hurt whoever was responsible. 

But he had to get out first.

He walked around the second floor again, looking for another window or a fire escape of some sort, because what modern building didn’t have one? Hell, even the rickety apartment he lived in had a rusted ladder hanging down its side.

Something flickered at the edge of Nezumi’s peripheral vision. His hand snuck into his pocket and gripped the knife there; it was always better to be cautious.

A fruit splattered out of a painting on his right, and, in a flash, Nezumi was crouched low, breaths steady and eyes sharp, as he held his knife at the ready in front of him. He was still.

All was still. Half a minute passed before Nezumi dared continue walking. It could still be some sort of bizarre prank, but his sixth sense for danger was kicking in full force. There was something very wrong here, but he kept walking. As he passed the painting he’d been so enraptured by earlier, he spared a moment to investigate it.

The hanged man wasn’t there anymore.

_Thump._

Nezumi turned, knife out and guard up. It’d sounded like something heavy, solid, and maybe a bit soft had impacted the ground from a small distance, but there was nothing he could see. He visually scanned the darkened room, lingering on the shaded corners, then decided to continue walking.

And then a rope whipped out of the painting and over his body. Before Nezumi could even try to free himself from the loop, it caught around his midsection and tightened, and he was yanked toward the painting. He pocketed his knife and tried to tug the noose low so he could step out of it, but it was pulling so quickly that it wasn’t even slowed down by his boots scrabbling against the carpet.

His back slammed against the wall, and the impact forced his breath out of him, momentarily stunning him. He curled forward and managed to squirm one foot out of the rope as he braced himself against the wall, but then, in the millisecond he was off-balance, the rope suddenly jerked and his leg flew out backwards from underneath him.

Nezumi only narrowly avoided bashing his jaw against the frame as the rope snatched him up into the painting. The world spun around him, colours and shapes swirling like a kaleidoscopic nightmare, and Nezumi clenched his eyes shut until it passed.

When all was still again, he took stock of his surroundings. To his front was a frame that displayed the gallery he’d just been in, behind him and to the right was a blank maroon wall, to his left was a door, and his head was about a meter above the ground. 

And he was hanging from the ceiling by a rope from one leg.


End file.
